


Pieces

by wneleh



Series: The Summer of 1999 (In which I try to get the guys past the events of TSbyBS happy, sane, and healthy) [9]
Category: Stargate SG-1, The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:11:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wneleh/pseuds/wneleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Air Force has questions. Jim has answers. Plenty of h/c ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

* * * Piece 1: Blair * * *

Pick up the pieces. That's what Jim has asked me to do.

I've been trying, but it's going miserably.

For the past five days, our lives have revolved around trying to reconstruct the life history of Ular the goa'uld, late possessor of Jim Ellison, with special attention paid to Ular's occasional contacts with his few little mind-controlling space alien friends. Why it matters that Ular spent an afternoon with a particular goa'uld-possessed human 400 years ago in the south of France, nobody will explain to me. THEY think it's important, and Jim agrees.

Nobody, least of all Jim, cares a damn about what diving through the memories that Ular left in his brain is doing to him.

Our sessions always begin cleanly, almost clinically. We gather in this cozy little conference room down the hall from our quarters, just Jim, me, Dr. Pan, and either Jack O'Neill or Daniel Jackson or, if we're really lucky, both of them, sitting a little apart from us at a small table, taking notes and making helpful suggestions. And the camera guy or gal, and a couple of security types. And sometimes my special friend Dr. Janet Frazier will drop by to shake her head and tell us to buck up.

All this, in one 15' x 18' windowless room inside a friggin' airless mountain. I'd wig from claustrophobia if what we do in the room isn't so much worse.

The routine is that Dr. Pan and Jim will sit in standard-issue conference room chairs facing each other, their knees maybe 3' apart. Dr. Pan (we call him Peter amongst ourselves, aren't we clever) actually uses a little piece of crystal hanging from some fishing line to focus Jim and get him to remember.

Dr. Pan's little crystal has nothing to do with how easily Jim gets into a semi-hypnotic state. It's me that's spent the past several years teaching him to do this.

God, I wish I hadn't.

Once Dr. Pan gets Jim pliant, he asks Jim to picture a scene he described the previous session, or he recites dialog Jim's recalled before, to get Ular's memories flowing. The first sessions concentrated on Juan de Sevilla, Ular's host in the late 15th and early 16th centuries. Over the next few days, Pan, presumably with off-line guidance from Jack and Daniel and whoever is watching the video, worked forward. It became obvious, though, that Ular purposefully avoided other goa'ulds more and more over time, and since the whole purpose of this exercise is to gain intelligence on goa'uld activity they decided to try to delve backwards a bit. So this morning, after Pan got Jim all floaty, Daniel spoke to him a bit in what I'm guessing was old German. Bingo, Jim jumped backwards in time and channeled Igor, 12th century serf, for three hours before lunch.

And now we're back at it.

I always start out sitting next to Jim. We don't know why, but if I'm not there, Jim can't relax enough to let Dr. Pan's magic fragment do its trick. Sometimes, I've been able to stay in my seat, maybe reaching over and rub his knee or shake his shoulder a little when things have gotten rough. A couple of times, I haven't had to pull him back, talk him out of the various hells Ular managed to find himself in.

More often, I've ended up behind Jim, rubbing his shoulders, shaking him hard or even bending down and holding him while begging him to recite the Jags' lineup or the names of H's last ten girlfriends or I don't know what else. Anything to get him to get out of the part of his brain that Ular filled with pain and back into the part Jim's filled all by himself.

This morning's session wasn't too bad. Igor's life with Ular doesn't seem to have been that hard. He'd been a single guy, at least during the bits Jim was remembering. Lost a herd of cattle to a flood, managed to survive small pox thanks to Ular, narrowly escaped dying in a barn fire - you know, the usual. Didn't even have to pass Jim a tissue when we were ready to take a break.

Daniel was happy, too - Ular-as-Igor had a lot of goa'uld friends, or, at least, drinking buddies, over the years. That's probably why both Jack and Janet have joined us, and brought Captain Sam along for the first time.

Jim's resisting getting back into Igor, though. He's under all right, but shaking his head. "No, no," he says and I almost move to end things now, like they've been letting me when I think Jim needs a break.

Instead, Daniel moves next to Dr. Pan and starts talking to Jim in low, guttural tones. Having taken French and Spanish in high school and only studied Native American dialects in college, I have no clue what he's saying.

"Nein," says Jim, for the first time speaking the language of one of Ular's hosts.

And now oh God he's leaning forward and moaning, a deep, anguished sound that I can't believe is coming from Jim. I lean sideways and put my right arm around him, pulling him towards me. The hard metal arm of my chair digs into my side, stopping me from being able to absorb whatever is happening to him, whatever it is he's remembering, so I rise and move in front of him, stomping on Dr. Pan's feet. Pan evaporates before I follow my urge to kick back hard.

"Jim," I say, my hands on the side of his face. "Snap out of it. Now."

But I might as well not be there. Jim's moan gets louder and higher in pitch, then he stops and draws in a breath, then lets another one out.

"What are you seeing? Jim, tell me what's happening to you." Then, damn it, "Igor, talk to me."

But Jim keeps moaning, and all I can do is lean over him, my head pressed to his, my arms around his neck. Something nudges the back of my legs - someone has pushed Pan's vacated chair forward, and I sit awkwardly, keeping a grip along Jim's arms. "Do something," I call out.

Janet is crouched next to us. "With his history of abnormal drug reactions, I don't dare," she says.

I spare her a quick glance, expecting to see pity, or understanding, or regret, or guilt - and, okay, she doesn't look like she's having any fun, but all-in-all I get the feeling she wishes I'd just get Jim under control so that they can keep on sifting the life out of him.

"Monsters," I grate, hoping they know I mean them.

Then, "S'okay, s'okay." Please come back, Jim. Don't do this to yourself.

He moans a few more times, his body stiffening more each time. Then, finally, "cut me open," he says in a voice that is an octave too high. "Save my baby."

Shit.

"What's your name," I ask.

"Clara," he says. "Please, save my baby..."

And he moans again. "I can't," he says. "I can't..."

And this time, his scream's at full volume in my face, so loud I jerk back. He's sitting up now, looking at me with eyes the size of golf balls, emptying his lungs.

As he runs out of air, he folds in on himself again, inclined forward, head bowed to his chest, arms crossed, completely still for a moment, not even breathing as far as I can tell.

"Oh, Jim," I say. I've sat back down and scooted forward far enough that I can put my arms around him.

"She died, Chief," he says, trying to sound normal but not letting me see his face. "Ular stayed dormant so that the baby would have a chance, but..."

"Goa'uld possession isn't compatible with pregnancy," I hear Daniel Jackson say, as if he were lecturing a class or something. "We've known this for a few months. If we'd had our hands on Ular's memories a year ago - we would have known this little fact in time to make use of it."

I tune the heartless bastard out. "Shhh, Jim," I say, wishing with all my might that Ular had chosen to take over my body instead of Jim's.

"Ular didn't have to let the baby come to term," says Jim, still looking down. "But, he felt bad about taking possession of - of a pregnant woman..."

"Why did he choose her as a host?" Jack's voice. At least he has the decency not to sound annoyed. Or maybe he is just satisfied because Jim is answering their damn questions.

"I don't know," says Jim. He's trying to straighten up, and I let him. His eyes are streaming and I look away. I can't take this anymore.

Jim draws a breath, audible, ragged. "Igor was murdered. Stabbed in the back. I don't know why, or if there even was a reason. He was taken into the nearest house, and Ular jumped into the first convenient body when he realized he couldn't heal Igor."

"Do you think Clara's possession contributed to her inability to deliver?" asks Janet.

"What does it matter!" I almost yell. I crane my neck to look around at them all. "What is the purpose of this? Why does any of this matter?"

"It does," says Daniel, and I can tell he's a bit upset, but not, I get the feeling, out of empathy with Jim.

I rise and put my arms around Jim again. He lets me pull him to me. The tears he's shed darken my shirt. "I'm okay, Chief," he says. I nod - a useless gesture, he can't see my head - and keep my hold. He'll let me know when he's had enough.

Jackson is clicking his ball-point. I'm going to kill him.

Finally, Jim stiffens his back a little and I let him go.

"I'm okay," he says again. "Let's keep going."

Like hell we will. I'm out of here.

And now, I'm in the hallway. My shirt is wet with the tears of the best person I've ever known, and nobody cares. I want to hurt someone.

There are two more airmen guards out here. "Do you know what you're a part of?" I scream at them. They just stand and blink. I lean against the wall and sink to the floor.

* * * Piece Two: Jim * * *

Shit, there Blair goes. Maybe some day he won't come back, and then I'll be completely screwed.

Wish I could convince him it isn't that bad. It can be hell when the memories are coming at me, but when it's over, it's over. It's not like, say, actually holding someone you care about as he stops breathing, as his heart gives up, as his essence of life seeps away, knowing I was too late, not strong enough, and that I'll never see him again, he'll never see another sunset, spend another afternoon sailing on the Sound...

NO! Don't go there, Ellison. Stay focused. Danny's been popping into my thoughts too frequently since getting here, despite Pan's efforts to keep my recall limited to Ular's memories, and it's getting damn annoying.

Better than thinking about Archie Sarris. Or Lila. Oh, damn. Stop it, Ellison!

The only really bad part of what's going on here is I can't repress my emotional responses. When Danny was killed, when the chopper crashed, I had a job to do, and I (mostly) put my brain in neutral and did it. But, with what we're trying to achieve here, I have to let myself feel and react. Which is freaking Blair out. Like a really have the energy to spare for his issues right now! An ugly thought, and I squelch it. Blair's doing the best he can. Damn good. I can't imagine anyone else getting me through this.

I wipe my eyes one last time with a tissue Dr. Frazier has given me.

"I really am fine," I say.

"Was there blood?" asks Janet, and I'm confused. Of course there was blood when Danny died, when Lila died... no blood when Blair drowned, though.

Jackson says, "In another host pregnancy we've encountered , the delivery went fine. The baby was fine." Jackson's heartbeat rate doubles as he says this; curious.

I probe at my images from Clara's mind. They're the most muddled that have surfaced so far, probably because Ular never tried to assume control of her. I press forward and now I can see her body through Ular's alien eyes. Yes, there's blood. Much too much blood.

"I think she bled out," I say.

"Was the baby breech?" asks Janet and I shrug; I have absolutely no idea.

"Maybe placenta previa," says Janet.

"When I was in Peru, I could never figure out what was wrong with people when they were sick. Symptoms just didn't match up with diseases I was familiar with, even once I got the hang of the language. It's the same thing with Ular's memories," I say.

Daniel nods. "I noticed the same thing on Abydos," he says.

I hear Jack brush his arm and breathe, "Careful," then, for general consumption, say "that's the cruise ship you worked on in college, right?"

"Actually, that was an island we had extended stays at," says Daniel. These people are unbelievably bad liars.

Janet has ignored the exchange and is staring at a point on the wall behind me, brows slightly furrowed. She's not used to being told she can't figure out what's wrong with someone, I gather.

Not my problem.

Dr. Pan looks a bit shaken. Not used to being trod on, especially by the Blair Sandburgs of the world, I'd wager. Also not my problem.

I square my chair to his and sit. "Let's do this before I decide to go get drunk, or something," I say.

At a nod from Jack, Dr. Pan sits again and waves his little rock in front of me. And I try, I really try to let go. It's not working though. My right foot is even tapping faster than Jackson sometimes clicks his pen.

So Jack moves into Blair's chair and puts a hand on my elbow. "You trust me, Jim, don't you?"

And I do, and it helps. Marginally. Dr. Pan decides to send me back to Juan, since that's a memory set that emerged all on its own a week ago. I'm able to let go enough to feel myself back in Juan and Pepe's little sun-drenched courtyard, but then the hum on one of the white noise generators they've packed this wing with changes slightly and I'm back in the conference room.

We try three more times, trying to get me back into Juan, then Igor, then poor Clara, and each time I find myself coming up out of the trance after a handful of minutes.

Seems like Blair's going to have to be a part of this whether he wants to or not.

Jack says, "Okay, campers, take 30," and I don't argue. Seeing Blair in the hall is a huge relief - I don't know what I was expecting, but I realize I'd been scared that he'd bugged out.

"Meet me in the workout room in 5," I say to him as I walk past toward my quarters, not wanting to talk in the hallway because relief has been replaced by anger.

* * * Piece Three: Daniel * * *

Okay, here it comes, now that Ellison's cleared out and the cameraman is packing up his gear. I make my face blank and wait for Jack's reprimand. Three, two, one...

"You did that on purpose, Daniel," he says.

"Well, not consciously," I say, which is the truth. I never lie to Jack. Well, hardly ever.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asks.

Janet answers for me. "I think he means that we aren't going to get Blair's co-operation unless he becomes convinced that it's worth the cost."

"And so you are suggesting that we, what, give the hippy a guided tour of the mountain, then maybe take him someplace fun and let him get shot at by some Jaffa? Dr. Pan, in your professional opinion as a head shrinker, what do you think of that?"

"As a means of publicity, it would be cheaper than renting a billboard in Times Square," says Herb. "Probably more efficient, too."

"He's keeping Ellison's secrets," Sam points out in Blair's defense.

"He's very loyal to Ellison," says Herb. "I don't know how many secrets someone like Blair can hold. Daniel has problems too, as we've witnessed."

I scowl; Blair and I are NOTHING alike. Oh, wait, he just insulted my discretion.

Well, I gave them cause, I guess.

"That's why we keep Danny on a short leash," says Jack. Gee, thanks. Can we get back to figuring out what to do about Ellison and Sandburg?

The room's second door opens and Teal'c joins us. We haven't been letting our new friends encounter the big guy; theory is, there's no way they wouldn't notice Teal'c's differences in about 20 seconds.

He nods greetings, then cuts to the chase: "To access Ellison's memories, we do not need hypnosis, or even, perhaps, his cooperation."

I shake my head. "No way," I say automatically. He's talking about the little memory recall doohickies Jack, Sam, and I all independently palmed a few weeks ago when we were dealing with Hathor and Apophis.

"Daniel Jackson, do you not regard Blair Sandburg as an irritation we would be well rid of."

Well, yes, that sums it up nicely. Okay, maybe Teal'c's idea has merit.

"Even if we use the magic discs on Jim, we'd still need Blair around to do emotional clean-up," says Jack.

"Maybe," I say, "or maybe Sandburg's just a crutch."

"He's far more than that," says Sam.

"Well," says Jack, "lets hope that Jim gets Sandburg back on board. If not

we'll put it to Jim and see what he says. I doubt Blair will let Jim hang in the wind, even if he doesn't help put him under."

* * * Piece Four: Blair * * *

Our life consists of five rooms, all within 50 feet of each other. Two small sleeping quarters, the conference room, the TV room which doubles as our mess hall, and our own personal workout room. Jim says that the rooms on this hall, and the passage itself, have at least 12 white noise generators going. Whatever else is going on in this mountain, they don't want us knowing about it.

I change into sweats and join Jim for a workout. I'm close to apologizing for my behavior, but can't bring myself to lie to him. No more lies, right? So I say nothing, just row myself back to Cascade. Jim attacks the weight machine. After a few moments, I slow and look at him. Damn, but he's looking good after a week of working out one or two hours a day, plus eating three squares and not changing any time zones. If only his mental health mirrored his physical state.

He catches my gaze. "So. Wanna talk about it?" he asks.

"I'm not going to be a part of this anymore." I resume my rowing, but Jim stays perched on the weight machine bench, looking at me, so I stop after a few determined pulls.

"I can handle it," says Jim. "You pull me out when I need it."

"You're not listening to me," I say. "I. Can't. Take. It."

"What's going to happen if you do?" Jim asks. "Afraid of showing a little emotion yourself?"

"What the HELL is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," says Jim. He turns back to machine and starts doing some butterfly presses.

After about 20 minutes, he heads back to his room to shower. I go into my own quarters, put my own clothes on, throw my wallet and my vial of antibiotics into my daypack, and decide to see how far I get.

As I step out into the hall, I don't see anyone whose name I know, but a security type falls in behind me. I head towards the friendly EXIT sign and he stays with me, but doesn't move to stop me. In three minutes, I've found the front entrance. I'm through, and still my tail just wags.

And, whadaya know, a taxi has just pulled up in front of the security checkpoint and a couple of officers are paying the cabbie. I shout, wave, and sprint out the 'in' lane, expecting, I don't know, maybe to be shot or something. Nothing happens. I jump in the cab and swing the door shut in my tail's face.

"Bastard thinks I'm sleeping with his wife," I tell the driver. "Let's roll."

And we do.

Before Jim even knows I've gone, I'm halfway to Colorado Springs.

* * * Piece Five: Jim * * *

I love long showers.

It's funny, the guys at the station make jokes about how Blair must be a bathroom hog, and, okay, it does take him longer than me to shampoo. But Blair grew up living in all sorts of communal arrangements, and generally keeping a low ratio of bodies to toilets was not high on Naomi's list of priorities when choosing their housemates. He's told me that's why he was living in that warehouse when we met, paying twice what a bedroom near campus would have cost him: when he'd moved from being a teaching assistant to a teaching fellow, he'd been able to afford his own space, and he wanted as much as he could get.

As I let the spray pound my back, I consider how an upshot of Blair's upbringing is that he can stay comfortably almost anywhere, and never takes more than 10 minutes in the bathroom. On the other hand, I grew up in a house with three full baths and a half-bath off the kitchen. Steven and I shared a bathroom in principle, but nobody ever had to wait for a head. Sure, I've dealt with all sorts of living arrangements since then, but I still think that not being hurried is my birthright, or so Blair has informed me.

Plus, a long shower means that I can delay the inevitable - pleading with Sandburg to help me access Ular's memories. Yeah, we've gone over Jack's "30" - so sue me.

Besides, it's not like Cheyenne Mountain is going to miss the water. When I was a kid, I went on a Cheyenne Mountain kick right after it came on-line and one fact I remember is that the complex is fed by something like three underground springs, which yield twice the normal daily needs of the personnel here.

Which gets me to thinking about why we're at this place in the first place. The 'Search for Goa'uld Committee', or SGC, could be based absolutely anywhere. I guess Colorado Springs is as good a place as any, but why at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex? And, if here, why actually inside the mountain and not in one of the dozen-or-so outlying buildings?

White-noise generators notwithstanding, this base, which contains some of the United States' most sensitive military infrastructure, is the last place I'd allow someone with my senses to be.

I guess this means they either really trust us, or really need us. And, as we've been thinking all along, there's got to be more to the SGC than a couple-dozen people tasked with trying to track down goa'uld. As contagions go, they're just not that bad in the scheme of things, if Ular is typical.

Guess that means I'm getting some perspective, eh? Processing's going well. Blair will be proud.

I end the shower and find that the laundry service delivered a pile of clean clothes while I've been in the bathroom. This would be great, but they've used a perfumed detergent AGAIN. Oh well. I grab a t-shirt from the pile that I've rinsed and let air-dry, then pull on my chinos.

As I enter the conference room, I realize that something's up. It's NEVER good to see a general, and, as I'm introduced to Jack's boss, General Hammond, I begin to suspect that he's not here to ask about my health.

Jack, Daniel, Sam, and Janet are also there, but no Dr. Pan or camera operator; looks like we're not going mind-surfing just now.

We all sit, then Jack says it: "Blair's walked out on us."

Hammond speaks before I can explode. "I trust that Colonel O'Neill has made it plain that you are here as our guest, and are free to leave at any time. Our only question for you is, do you think that he will be open to coming back once he's cooled down a bit, or should we investigate alternatives?"

"You don't even have a tail on him?" I sputter.

"He, uh, shook it," says Daniel. Is he looking a tad respectful of Blair? Too damn late for that to be helpful.

But being angry at Jackson for his general attitude toward Blair isn't really staying on point. "You can't let him go off on his own!" I say.

They look at me blankly.

"This is Sandburg we're talking about! He's heading who-knows-where - how much daylight do we have left?"

"About six hours," says Daniel. "Colorado Springs at twilight! Scary place!"

Sam's shaking her head and trying not to laugh. Hammond says, "Does Mr. Sandburg have some disability we should have been made aware of?"

"He attracts madmen," I say, and only as the words emerge do I realize how ridiculous they sound. Hell, Simon and our other friends would understand. "You could call my boss," I say, then realize I'm digging myself deeper.

Sam snorts "madmen!" and Daniel teeters "obviously!"

"People!" snaps Hammond, and they sober. Wonder what it means that they'd giggle in front of their commanding officer in the first place?

Knew there was a reason I joined the army.

Hammond turns his full attention to me. "I understand you've been having some trouble maintaining a state of hypnosis when you aren't accompanied by Mr. Sandburg." I nod. "What I am about to tell you is as classified as any information you have ever had access to, or been involved in. Are you comfortable with this? Can we be assured of your continued discretion?" I nod again, and he gestures to O'Neill.

Jack straightens. "We've been developing technology for retrieving gao'uld memories from former hosts. However, it's, uh..."

"An uncomfortable process," supplies Sam.

"Yes, that's the word. Uncomfortable."

"How bad?" I ask.

"Manageable," says Sam. "But, we've never used it for general surveys of memories before. Never for more than 5 or 10 minutes."

"And with your enhanced senses... well, it could be worse for you than for the typical human," says Daniel.

Human? Not simply 'person'?

They all look at me expectantly. Cardiac and respiration rates are up for all five of them, but I can't tell whether it's from anxiety over what the experience is like, or whether they're providing false information.

"How many people have tried it?" I ask.

Daniel starts to answer, but Jack snaps, "That's need-to-know."

Meaning they don't want to tell so many lies they can't keep them straight?

"Any, I don't know, brain damage?" I ask.

Janet speaks, and I can tell she's being truthful. "No," she says. "Nothing like that."

Then what's the issue? "Sure, I'll go for it," I say.

Jack nods his head. "Tomorrow. I want to give the techs time to tweak things a little more. And I think you need a break."

"If there's no time pressure, I'd like to see if I can catch up with Sandburg," I say.

"Well, of course you may if you want to," says Hammond.

"...But he's in the city already; just spoke to his cabbie before you came in here," supplies Jack.

I mulled this over for a few moments. "I could start with the libraries..."

"We've got an APB out," says Jack. "But if it would make you feel better, we could drive into Colorado Springs ourselves, look around some."

I nod; it's hard to tell how much of Jack's attitude is simply O'Neill Attitude (the memory of which, somehow, I'd managed to repress all these years) and how much was him not really giving a shit where Blair had gotten himself off to. It's almost like they are happy he's taken off.

Maybe Blair didn't leave by choice. Maybe he hasn't really left at all. Maybe...

No, I'm just getting paranoid.

Damn, Blair, how could you have left me?

* * * Piece Six: Simon * * *

"Banks."

"Captain! Glad I've caught you. This is Colonel Jack O'Neill, U.S. Air Force. How are you today, sir?"

"O'Neill!" I shout into the receiver. "I expected you to release my men three days ago!"

"I thought I explained that we aren't holding them, just talking to them," says O'Neill. Sure. Right. O'Neill continues, "how would you describe Jim's, ah, mental stability?"

"He's the sanest man I know." Which is a lie, but I'm not giving these guys anything.

"What about Sandburg?"

"He's, how shall I put it, a free spirit, but he's been a valuable member of our team, and I hope he will see fit to join us in a more official capacity soon."

"Uh huh. So there's no reason you'd expect Sandburg to be a danger to himself or others if he spent a few hours alone in, say, Colorado Springs?"

"No..."

"If it rains, he'll have enough sense to seek cover? He'd be able to figure out where to spend the night, or catch a bus, or what have you, provided he had a few dollars in his pocket?"

I chuckle. "Blair's given you the slip, has he?"

"You could say so. You'll let us know if he shows up in Cascade?"

"I'll do no such thing," I say sweetly. "Can I be of help in any other way?"

O'Neill hangs up on me. Ah, fly boys.

So now Hair-boy's on his own. Way to go, kid.

* * * Piece Seven: Sam * * *

At the risk of sounding like Marvin the Paranoid Android, my brother's alter-ego in 7th grade, I'm really feeling like my talents are being underused at this particular moment. I could be in my lab working. I could be working out. I could be MAKING out. Scratch that.

I could be reviewing that article my grad school roommate has begged me into taking on. I could be skimming my three-month backlog of Astrophysical Research Letters, or even glancing through Nature so that I don't make a fool of myself the next time I'm hanging out with some old friends.

Heck, I could even be on the other side of the galaxy doing something useful.

Instead, I'm playing chauffeur to Jim Ellison. I managed to convince him that, given that Jack had actually talked to the cabbie that had given Blair his getaway ride, and the man had assured us that they'd made it into Colorado Springs without incident, we didn't have to scour the roadside on our way into town. Now, though, he's asking me to stop every two minutes so that he can peer into alleys, press his ear against perfectly innocent warehouses, dart into public libraries and SNIFF.

I don't care what Jack says about his old buddy Jimmy. This guy belongs someplace, and that place isn't in my passenger seat.

I'll grant that Hammond is being wise to limit knowledge of Ellison's goa'uld possession to a handful of people, even within the SGC. It's one thing for us to gate out into the galaxy and fight the goa'uld on their turf. The average airman can see the worth of what we're doing, and understands the need to do it in secrecy.

It's another thing to let a thousand people, plus or minus, know that not all the goa'uld left Earth thousands of years ago. That there are goa'uld among us on Earth, moving from person to person. And we have no idea how many there are. Less than a dozen? Millions? How many people working in the mountain could know about this, and not feel compelled to warn their loved ones? Or to go out goa'uld hunting?

I've got to admit we're learning a lot from the nut next to me (who now has me aiming for the Academy, so that he can taste the student union and feel the library or something). I don't think it had ever really occurred to anyone that there could be reasonably benign, unambitious goa'ulds. We've been thinking of Ra as stanard-issue and the Tok'ra as being almost another species. Ular seems to have been equally different from both.

Well, maybe benign isn't the right term. Not actively dangerous. But not beings we want to have walking the streets, either.

Is using a goa'uld memory device on Jim a good idea, though? Is getting at what's in his mind worth it, even if there's no other quick way? I did NOT enjoy the way it made memories come to the fore. But then, I experienced my device under pretty tense circumstances, when I thought that everyone I knew had died long before me. Ultimately, I developed pretty good control of the rate and content of my recall. What sort of things might Jim have buried, though? He's a cop, after all. And ex-covert ops.

Okay, yes, I'll stop the car so that you can go check out that park.

And that means I can call Daniel. "I can't deal with much more of this guy," I say. "Be great if you could drive in and spell me."

"Brain the size of a planet..." Daniel offers, chuckling. "I would have placed you as Trisha McMillan, not Marvin."

"Yeah, I made an awesome Trillian in Junior High, Zaphod," I say.

Of all the people on the world I could share a brain with, why does it have to be Daniel Jackson?

* * * Piece Eight: Blair * * *

It's a beautiful day. If I ever felt an overwhelming desire to go live in a place I represented the radical fringe all by my lonesome, this might be it.

Heck, JIM probably would count as a liberal in this town.

Yeah, I'm making assumptions about a place based on NO data, just the fact that it contains the Air Force Academy and, it seems, a lot of other things Air Force as well.

So, how does a guy like me lay low in a place like this?

Well, step one, catching the first bus I saw from where Frank the Cabbie deposited me, was obvious. I knew I'd know where to get off when I saw it, and this strip mall is perfect. Grocery store, movie theatre, book store, record store, Starbucks. Oh, and a little park behind it all. I'm set for life.

Step two: Get some food. I lived for a week once on bananas, a dozen bagels, and two dozen eggs. Cheapest food week I've ever had, and it wasn't too atrocious nutrition-wise. Eggs and bananas wouldn't work too well at this instant, but bagels would be a good idea.

Step three: scan the marquee. I'll probably be able to get 5 good hours of sleep in by catching a couple of shows later. Let's see... wow, it's been a while since I've been to a movie! I've been wanting to see Phantom Menace anyway. Maybe I'll catch it in a while, then try to sleep through a pair of showing of the Austin Powers sequel.

Maybe leaving town would be the best thing to do - but I can't do that.

Can't believe I left him there!!! But if I'm not there, they can't keep on torturing him. They'll let him go eventually, and we can get things sorted out between us. If I tell myself this enough times, will I start to believe it??

Or maybe after this, Jim'll finally tell me to have a nice life, see ya, once and for all.

Would that be so bad?

Yeah.

Which brings me back to - what the blazes am I going to do with the rest of my life???

This is not getting me anywhere near being fed and sheltered.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, time to buy a dozen bagels and a banana, maybe the cheapest liter bottle of water in the store...

* * * Piece Nine: Jack * * *

What did I tell Jim a while ago? That our techs need a little time to "tweak" what we've been calling the GMD, for "goa'uld memory device?"

Which sort of implied that they've got the thing all figured out.

I lean against the doorframe and peer into Janet's office. "Tell me you know how this thing is really going to effect Ellison," I say.

"You know I can't do that," she says. "Colonel, if it's important to get to Ellison's memories, and he's given informed consent, there's no reason not to proceed."

"You can deal with it if he's overwhelmed?"

"I'll have a syringe of a sedative that he says he's been administered before without ill effect. Apparently, his main issue with the drug is that it doesn't knock him out as completely as it would most people, and disorients him a bit. But it should be enough to allow us to get near him if things get out of hand."

"Somehow, I'm not filled with confidence."

Yikes, I've pissed Janet off. She snaps, "Colonel O'Neill, I am not doing this for any other reason than that the security of the planet may hinge on memories he can't access any other way. If I'm mistaken, let me know and I'll disallow the procedure."

I raise a hand and start to say something stupid, but she continues, "We're flying without wires here, Jack, you know that."

I nod. So what else is new. But it really isn't all that critical that we get access to Jim's memories ASAP. "Would a little more time help you out?" I ask.

"Doubtful," she says. "Listen, Jack, we've tested the GMD on five volunteers. All reported the same effects your team experienced - an ability to clearly recall scenes in great detail, and to have those recollections led by an interrogator, plus the occasional intrusion of vivid memories of traumatic events. None experienced adverse physical or long-lasting mental side-effects. We weren't able to get the broadcasting feature working, and maybe more time and resources would let us figure out how to display remembered images. But that could take months, and, as I understand it, you really don't need anything but words from Ellison."

"We can't just, I don't know, plug in a cable?"

"Unlike some SciFi aliens, the goa'uld don't use UNIX," she says. "All we've really figured out is that the internal probe is what emits the signal which starts memory recall, and the outer part is mostly there for transmission and for making the device easy to manipulate. Oh, and it's a good thing you and your team just didn't yank the GMDs off yourselves - you really DON'T want the probe to break off and stay imbedded."

"We wouldn't have been able to get them out later?"

"Oh, sure, it would just take a really good tweezing. But I'm betting the tweezers you all carry wouldn't have been up to the task."

"Tweezers," I say. "I'll make a note to buy some better ones."

She waves a hand, shooing me. "Find me another Sentinel to test a GMD out on first, then I'll be able to answer your questions better," she calls as I leave. I get no respect, I tell ya.

Janet is usually the do-no-harmer around here, so her assurances should be enough for me. But I still feel a growing sense that maybe we shouldn't mess around with Ellison's mind too much.

Think I'll invite the gang over tonight, see if Jim seems basically steady. If nothing else, give the guy a nice last meal.

Just kidding.

* * * Piece Ten: Jim * * *

Blair can never figure out whether a beer bottle has a twist-off top or needs a bottle opener. He says I have an unfair advantage in this regard, having Sentinel vision. I say that if he were worth two cents as an 'observer', he wouldn't always be ripping his palm up on pop-tops.

Guess it's a good thing it's his left hand, not his right, that he tore up a few weeks ago.

Ya know, I've got to stop thinking about Blair.

Okay, what else. Okay, there's a LOT else to think about. Maybe Blair's the best I can do.

Except, of course, the little matter of him being AWOL.

At least Jack stocks good beer. Back in Kuwait in '91, we were happy to have Bud. Looks like the 90's have changed us both in that regard. I haven't had a single brand in the cooler before - they're all local Colorado microbrews.

I feel ridiculous being here, though. Drinking beer in Jack O'Neill's back yard, making small talk, or not, with him, Jackson, and Carter. Daniel and I have already figured out that we don't know any of the same people. Carter keeps on giving me cheery brightest-girl-in-the-class smiles, which I think are supposed to be reassuring. Not sure about what though. That the GMD will work fine on me? That Blair isn't dead in an alley somewhere?

That Blair only left to protect me, not because he's come to his senses and decided to go live a normal life?

Scratch that. Blair's life will never be normal.

It suddenly occurs to me that I really don't think that Blair's in any sort of danger. It's just about me. All about me.

Time for another beer. Haven't had a beer without Blair around in years.

STOP IT!

I plop into a lawn chair and try to look reasonably content. I'm fine, go about your barbecue, please don't chat at me.

Doesn't seem to be an issue now, at least. Jack's busy with the grill, which is emitting plumes of smoke in time to his curses. And Daniel and Sam have been sitting with their heads together, talking softly, for ten minutes. I bet it's about me. I shouldn't listen... but now I can't help it.

"...Prefect," Daniel is saying. "Jack is DEFINITELY Zaphod."

"No!" Sam hisses. "I'll buy you're not Zaphod, but neither is Jack. Jack's Ford, Teal'c is Zaphod, you're Arthur."

"No," says Daniel. "Jack's Zaphod, I'm Ford or Arthur, and Teal'c just doesn't map."

I have no idea what they're talking about. Bet Blair would know.

Now Jack's asking me to define 'medium rare.' Nothing that produced that much smoke for that long!

It's going to be a long evening.

* * * Piece Eleven: Jack * * *

I think Ellison is up to this. Seemed okay at the barbecue last night, did a darn good job taking over clean-up afterwards, laughed through Caddy Shack, made a decent breakfast this morning before we headed back to base.

Should I tell him that, while he was in the head, I got a report that we've located Sandburg at a Starbucks in a strip mall in Colorado Springs? He's sipping a mocha grande and reading a paperback and he's got TWO tails right now, so there's no way he's giving us the slip again.

Well, if Jim brings it up, I'll tell him the truth.

Ah, here's Janet, come to join us out here in the hall where we're hanging out waiting for the techs to finish prepping the interrogation room. She arches an eyebrow and I give her a thumbs-up.

"You ready?" she asks Jim.

"As I'll ever be," he says.

Okay, here we go.

* * * Piece Twelve: Jim * * *

I see they've rearranged the furniture a bit. Didn't expect they'd want to have me lying down during today's questioning, but there's now a cot against the far wall, and equipment for measuring my vitals. The nurse/med tech/whatever is cute, though. 'Course, if this is anything like my other sessions, there's no way she's ever going to consider me date material.

Other witnesses are, let's see, Jack, Sam, Daniel, Dr. Pan, and Dr. Frazier. Hail, hail, gang's all here.

Let's get this started.

Janet hands me the GMD. It looks like half a small yoyo, with a probe the thickness of a knitting needle sticking out. "That thing doesn't actually go into my head, does it?" I ask.

"Yes, actually, it does," she says, "but it's coated with a substance which numbs the region a bit, and prevents bleeding."

Nifty. I can think of a lot of non-military applications for that sort of coating. And a lot of military ones, too, some of which I'd think I'd have had some inkling about. Wonder how the Search for Goa'uld Committee got to work with the material so early in its design process?

I can also think of a lot of applications for a device which freshens memories. Wonder why these folks have THAT technology too, when you'd think that law enforcement would be the first customers, even if what a GMD helped a witness recall wasn't directly admissible in court.

These folks certainly seem to be well-resourced!

I hand it back to the doctor. She points to where the stem enters the center of the yoyo. "This junction is strong, but not indestructible. It's critical that you don't try to take the GMD off yourself, since you might sheer the outer housing off..."

"But we've stocked tweezers just in case," interrupts Jack.

Janet and I both glare at him, then I nod that I understand. "Hands off," I sum up.

"Right. Let us know if the experience is too intense, and we'll remove the device immediately."

I nod again. Intense. Good word.

"Will I be in a hypnotic state of some sort?" I ask.

Janet turns to where the others are sitting. "No," says Sam, apparently speaking for them all. "You should be able to guide your recall process most of the time. But some memories come like - well, like the vivid flashbacks you might have after a car wreck or something."

Or something. Wonderful. Fortunately, I've been pretty immune to PTSD-type reactions - I don't hit the floor when I hear a chopper, for example.

Final question: "Why do you want me lying down?"

"So that you can relax more fully, and so that we can hook up the monitoring equipment more easily. And, it might be useful to have you horizontal in case you require sedation."

I had to ask, didn't I?

"Let's do it," I say.

I get situated, lying back on the (vinyl-covered) cot with my head on a (vinyl-covered, pretty-much cylindrical) pillowish object. How can something that's not a boulder be THIS uncomfortable? I try adjusting the pillow higher and lower; finally Jack darts out and comes back with the pillow from my quarters, more than making up for the state of last night's steak.

The med tech, Corporal Cole, comes around through the foot-and-a-half gap between the right side of the bed and the wall and I cooperate as she inserts an IV lock, minus the IV. Just in case. Wonderful. The same arm also gets a cuff around the bicep, and a little monitoring thingie on my middle finger. So now my right arm is pretty much useless.

As if I didn't feel vulnerable enough, between not being able to hear beyond this room because of the white noise generators and being flat out on my back. Ah well, as Carolyn might have said, this isn't about me.

Dr. Pan's voice comes from my left now. "Mr. Ellison, we're going to concentrate on your memories of the Spaniard, Juan, now, since those have been the most easily accessible before. We'll then try to investigate your knowledge of the goa'uld Seth, whom you've said Ular associated with during his time inside Juan. You may find Ular's memories coming to you less sequentially than when you were under traditional hypnosis."

"How so?"

"When you've been under hypnosis, I've been able to guide your recall to a fair degree. Under the GMD, your own psych will be in control. You'll be fully conscious, and you'll need concentrate on what we're asking about." He smiled. "It's easier to do it than to explain. Don't worry. You'll catch on quickly."

Apparently, my heart monitor doesn't think so; it's kicked things up a notch. Traitor.

"Okay, let's do this," I say.

Drs. Frazier and Pan change places, and I turn slightly away from her, to give her a clear shot at my left temple. She swaths around some iodine, which smells awful and feels worse. "Ready?" she asks.

I nod - and wince as I feel a slight jab.

"It's in," she says, then backs up so that Dr. Pan can take the front-row seat.

"You're doing fine, Mr. Ellison," he says. "Are you comfortable?"

What an absurd question. "What should I be thinking about? How does this work?" I ask.

"I want you to remember the little house Ular lived in when he was hosted by Juan."

Right. He said that.

"Man, your memory stinks," says a voice I know. Danny Choi. We're at the Y playing basketball 2-on-2 against his friend Paul and his "Big Brother" Pete, a programmer with Microsoft who's ten years older than me and showing his age - which is younger than I am NOW. Danny's 13, and not really officially my "Little Brother" anymore since I haven't lived in Seattle for a couple of years. We're still close, though, and we always will be. But right now, he's pissed at me because he has worked out all these plays and I'm just not absorbing them fast enough for him.

"Come on, kiddo, give me a chance!"

We're up 12-6, but that's not good enough. Paul has run into the next court to retrieve the game ball, and Danny's waving a piece of paper at me. "Just follow the X's, Jim! This O - see, the red one - is me, the blue O is Paul - this is what he ALWAYS does when I come into the key... "

"Danny, when did you have time to do this? I just called your mom yesterday!"

"Today in Social Studies."

"Instead of paying attention?"

"Chill, Jim! I've got, like, a 105 in that class 'cause of doing extra credit. We were just reviewing for a test on Monday, and I've got everything down cold already. So chill!"

And, at that instant, I realize he's gone from being a bright-like-all-Asian-kids-are-supposed-to-be kid to a teenager. One who can do anything in the world he wants.

Who's dying under my hands. Nogodnogodnoooooo.

Back to Seattle. Back to Seattle.

Someone is shaking me. Dr. Pan. "I need to get back to Seattle," I tell him.

And I'm back in line at a grungy multiplex with Danny, waiting to get into one of the 'Police Academy' movies.

I figure I'd better tell Danny now. "After tonight, it's going to be a while before I see you again. I'm being shipped out of the country."

"Awww, man!" says Danny. He shifts a little from foot to foot, and I'm about to ask him if he wants to hit the men's room when he says, "If another Star Wars movie comes out, I'll wait until you get back before seeing it." Which doesn't make a lot of sense, until I remember...

Mrs. Choi is reading my letters of recommendation while I sit trying to look respectful and responsible. She looks me up and down, then says, "I don't want my boy near any guns."

"I'm just in ROTC, ma'am," I say. "No guns for me until after graduation, if then." Which isn't quite the truth, but it's not like I've got an M-16 in my dorm room.

"Mmmm... " and she goes back to my file. "You'll do," she says. And I find myself matched up with Danny, a skinny eight-year-old who'd immigrated to America from Taiwan when he was two. His father died a year later, leaving him with no local family except for his mom. I can tell she wishes she could never let him out of her sight. He's been acting up in school a little, though, and the school counselor's taken an interest and convinced Mrs. Choi that a "Big Brother" would be a good idea, and so here I am.

And now I'm on my first outing with Danny. For some reason, I thought it would be a neat idea to take him to see 'The Empire Strikes Back' opening weekend, though he'd asked for 'Herbie Goes Bananas'. Oh, yeah, because I get a free ticket out of taking him, as long as we hit a matinee. And, I figured, how looney could a matinee get?

Turns out, the freaks are out in force. About a third of the women are dressed like some instantiation of Leia - my favorite actually has bagels duct-taped over her ears - and storm troopers and guys with painted tubing for noses or limbs or, uh, naw, that HAS to be a leg, are lined up with the 'normal' folks, normal defined as 'Sandburg in grunge mode.' I'm feeling way out of place in my buzz cut, and Danny's pressed up against me, hitting at my shirt with his hand. I take it. Have I ever held hands with a male before? Don't think Dad ever held my hand, even when I was half Danny's age. "You okay?" I ask him. He nods, transfixed by someone in an 8'-tall Chewbacca outfit.

"Jim? Jim, what do you see?" Dr. Pan is asking me.

"Chewbacca," I say, my eyes still closed. Much chatter ensues; I ignore it.

We're back in line for 'Police Academy 2'; Danny's 13, not 8, and definitely not holding my hand. He's looking at the ticket he's holding, then says, "Is it okay if we don't see the movie? I'd really just rather, ya know, hang out?"

So we bag the movie and head to HoJo's and we spend the next three hours just catching up. Danny tells me about his friends and playing basketball in a youth league and how he really hopes he makes the JV team next year, in ninth grade. I tell him about what I've been doing and just the barest bit about being accepted into Covert Ops and he's a bit wary on my behalf - "those guys do some serious shit, Jim," he says, and I can't believe that those words come out of his mouth, but I can't disagree with the sentiment. I tell him how I feel that I'm finally getting a chance to serve my country. Danny says that he's been thinking about the same sorts of things, and that he's thinking that maybe he'd like to be a cop some day, because he's seen how suspicious his community is of the police and how much good a cop with a clue could do.

"Your mom okay with this plan?" I ask him.

He rolls his eyes. "No way! I'm still telling her I'm going to be an anesthesiologist."

I say that that 's not a bad plan either. And I start to think that maybe THIS is the sort of interaction with kids that I'll have in my life. Already I'm having doubts about trying to mix a family or even a long-term committed relationship with the sort of military career I see unfolding for me. But shooting hoops with kids like Danny, acting as a masculine counterpart to the Mrs. Chois of the world - this I can see myself doing.

And now it's six years later and I'm back from Peru and who's the one person waiting for me at Cascade Airport? Danny's standing there all grown up and I get my first hug since I left the Chopec.

"In what ways is the alien like Chewbacca?" Dr. Pan is asking. I get the feeling he's been trying to get my attention for a while.

"He's big and hairy and wears a metallic sash," I say. "Don't you guys ever get out of this mountain?"

Danny has gotten his hands on a convertible somewhere for the occasion, and we just drive. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm not all there. He's just finished his sophomore year at a private college in Oregon, taking biology and physics and loads of math but sneaking in criminal justice classes at a local community college on the side, and that's mostly what he talks about. And a little bit about how he felt when my letters stopped coming, just shy of two years ago.

And I start to think that maybe I might be able to wrangle a job in law enforcement myself.

Itsnotmyfault, itsnotmyfault, he was heading toward being a cop before I even submitted my application to the Cascade PD.

But I convinced him to look into working in Cascade. I wrote the glowing recommendation that got him hired and into the state academy during a city-wide freeze. I convinced the brass to put him undercover for a few years instead of walking a beat. And I was the reason he was on Grand Boulevard at 11:15 p.m. on November 3, 1996. I'm not the reason his cover was blown, and I didn't pull the trigger, but in every other sense I'm culpable for his murder.

Now I'm at the funeral home. His mother sees me, charges. Slaps me. I leave. I have things to do. Juno's going down.

Damn, I miss him. I wish Juno had put the bullet through my heart instead.

* * * Piece Thirteen: Daniel * * *

Okay, this looks bad.

For a few minutes there, we were all excited because it seemed like Ular had encountered aliens at some point, probably while being hosted by Juan. None of the races we've encountered really scan as Chewbacca, except, maybe the Nogs, who are a little like mini-Chewies. From what we've observed about the life cycle of technological development within cultures, though, it's not impossible that some alien race visited earth a few hundred years ago and has since turned inward, or been subdued by the goa'uld, or is just staying out of our way. New allies are one of our primary goals, though, and the prospect of Chewbaccaesque friends was pretty enticing. And, if it HAD been the Nog - well, an interest in our planet by them in the recent past (in their terms) could only be good for us.

Dr. Pan couldn't get Jim to describe them further, though, and finally it occurs to everyone that Jim's not playing by our script, surprise surprise.

Then his eyes start running, and Jack pushes past Pan. "Come on, come on, Jim, get with the program," he says. "You're controlling the process today, remember?"

Jim's blinking and wiping at his eyes. "You say you guys have found this useful?" he asks. "I just..."

"Just have to relax and concentrate a bit," says Jack.

Jim's eyes narrow; that obviously made no sense to him either. "Just remembering someone," he says.

"What can you tell us about Chewbacca?"

"Great costume. Much better than the bagel-Leia."

We all sort of sigh in unison.

"Think back to Juan de Sevilla. What did his house look like?" asks Jack.

"Like the place you brought us to when we first got to Colorado, sort of," says Jim. He closes his eyes again. "I really thought Blair was in trouble. But he was fine..." and he opens his eyes again. "Wasn't he?"

"He's fine," says Jack.

"You don't know that," says Jim, almost dreamily. "I kicked him out of my place once, did we ever tell you about that? 'Course we didn't. Thought I was losing my mind... "

And he's gone again. Jack looks around at us, a bit exasperated, but I think he's doing a pretty good job, all in all.

"Who'd you test this thing out on?" he asks Janet.

"Several new officers and a corporal, I believe," she says.

"So, basically, kids," snaps Jack. "Worst experiences of their lives were probably acne and bad dates."

"I believe they were young," she says. "But, in my experience, youth is no shield from life's hardships, as my daughter might tell you. And, anyway, you, Daniel, and Sam have all experienced the device as well, and were able to guide your recollections."

"Maybe the projection technology helped," I offered. "Kept our memories on track. And we were, uh, highly motivated."

"And you're saying he's not?" Jack asks, but I can tell he takes my point.

And then I realize I just mentioned 'projection technology' in the presence of uncleared personnel, namely Jim. I am so not cut out for keeping secrets. Nobody blinks, though. I think we've all realized that Jim's going into his own memories and there's nothing we can do about it.

Jack turns towards us, but keeps a hand on Jim's arm. "Daniel, Sam, I'm thinking you two should be prepared to make a Starbucks run. Not yet, though."

Meaning, he's thinking we might need to haul Blair back in - presumably, from a Starbucks. Why am I not surprised. Sam murmurs that she's going to go make sure she knows where we'd be going, and slips out of the room. Jack resumes talking to Jim in what, for him, is a whisper. He's a lot more effective than Dr. Pan, and I'm reminded of the couple of times he's really gotten through to me. I have a brief pang at the thought that Jack could really be anything that he wanted to be, that his talents are wasted by staying a generalist. Then I remember that we've been saving the world regularly of late, and figure Jack's pretty much found his niche.

* * * Piece Fourteen: Jim * * *

I shouldn't have told Jack about kicking Blair out of the loft, because now all I can picture is Blair lying on the grass. Dead. Dead like Danny.

I didn't give up on Blair, though. I brought him back.

Why didn't I do the same thing for Danny? Could I have?

My hands are covered with Danny's blood. He's shot through the heart. I'm telling Blair to call for an ambulance and he's not doing it. He's trying to pull me away. I don't want to yell at Blair and scare Danny, but he's forcing me. And then I realize Blair's right. Danny's heart has been mutilated by the bullet. If he was in an operating room right now, it wouldn't make a lick of difference.

I scream, an inarticulate howl of rage. Then - I lose time. Then there are sirens, lights, uniforms. Simon's rubbing my shoulder, asking me what happened. He's crushed. He has no right to look like that; he was Danny's boss, but Danny was my kid.

"He was my kid," I tell Jack. "And I couldn't protect him."

"Your kid?" asks Jack. "Who?"

Jack never knew Danny. Blair never even met him. I jerk away from Jack. Nobody has the right to mourn Danny but his mother. Not even me, she made very clear.

"Calm down, Jim," Jack's saying, grabbing my arm.

Jack should really know better than to grab me in a bad mood. I hurl him away.

I know why this is happening! How can I be so stupid. I grab the thing they've stuck into my temple and - "Jim, no!" somebody says - I rip it out and throw it as hard as I can.

Maybe that wasn't a very smart thing to do. Didn't Dr. Frazier say that I shouldn't touch her yo-yo?

Now, all I see is blood. Danny's blood. Lila's blood. Archie Sarris's blood.

Blood everywhere.

* * * Piece Fifteen: Sam * * *

Shit.

Jack, Pan, and the med tech are trying to pin Ellison down so that Janet can give him the sedative she's had at the ready for a while. I move to join them.

Jack looks over his shoulder and waves me off. "You and Daniel. Go. Now."

And so we go.

"I can't believe we let that go on that long," Daniel is saying as we get into my car.

I'm incredulous. "You've been for pushing him hard since the beginning," I say.

"Yeah, well..." says Daniel. "He's special ops, right? He's supposed to be trained."

"Jack says that he was pretty much forced out," I say. "Come on, Daniel, be consistent. We either really need what's in his head, and will do what we have to do to get at it, short of murder, or we don't. You can't have it both ways."

Daniel bangs back against his headrest. "I hate this sometimes, Sam," he says.

In twenty-five minutes, we're finding a parking place near Starbucks at Skyview Plaza. "Not where I'd go if I were running away from home," says Daniel.

"Where'd you choose?" I ask.

"Ever read 'From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Something-or-the-other'?"

"Sure," I say, "I'd chose a museum in a flash. Surprised you'd go for one, though."

"Oh, why?" Daniel asks, genuinely looking puzzled, as we enter the restaurant.

Blair's sitting in the back next to a fake fireplace. He notices us immediately. "What's happened?" he calls to us.

"You'd better come with us," I say, preparing for an argument.

"Jim's freaking out," says Daniel the ever-tactful.

The argument doesn't happen; Blair's dropped his paperback and is out the door in front of me. Where's Daniel? Oh, getting Blair's book and backpack. Good for you, Daniel!

Out in the parking lot, Blair's looking back and forth. Did I read this wrong? Is he going to run?

No, he's just trying to figure out where I parked. I motion for Blair to follow me and we get in my Saab, Daniel right behind us sliding into the back seat.

"Go," Blair says. "Fill me in on the way."

"Surprised you're in such a hurry to get back," comments Daniel. It's why I keep him around; he asks everyone the sorts of questions I'd only ask him.

"I left to protect Jim," says Blair. "I figured you couldn't question him if I wasn't around to keep him grounded. Guess I was wrong."

"Not completely," I say. "We used some memory recall technology..."

Blair pounds the dashboard. "Damn it! I knew it! Super-secret government projects have access to all sorts of technologies that the private citizen doesn't know about. And I left him with you! How could I have been so stupid!"

"Good question," says Daniel.

My, what a colorful response, Mr. Sandburg!

I call in and tell Corporal Thomas that we've picked up Blair, then we drive in silence for a while. As we get close to the mountain, I realize I'd better fill Blair in a little more. "The device we are using is called a GMD. It attaches at the temple and facilitates recall. Jim never seemed to be able to gain control of the memory onslaught. This is an atypical reaction, Blair. Everyone else who has used it has been able to guide recall and has only had sporadic discomfort. Right, Daniel?"

"Yeah. It's not pleasant, but I didn't have real trouble," he says.

"What happened to Jim. He's not a vegetable, is he?" Blair asks.

"Oh, nonono," I say.

"But he's experiencing lingering effects?"

Daniel says, "When we left, he'd, uh, broken the GMD. Unless you detach it carefully, part of it says in the skull. That's the part that makes your brain recall memories."

"Can't Frazier just pull the remaining piece out?" asks Blair.

"Not without Jim's cooperation," says Daniel. "He didn't look like he'd be giving that any time soon. They were trying to get a sedative into him, but he wasn't cooperating."

"Sedatives don't work real well on Jim," says Blair quietly.

I say, "They might have given up and knocked him out. But they haven't called, so I doubt the situation's really under control yet. They probably decided that it would be best if they waited to see if you could settle him."

"That's all he wanted me to be doing," says Blair. "Damn".

* * * Piece Sixteen: Blair * * *

Go go go go go. Why have a Saab if you're going to do the speed limit? Come on, this isn't a Neon!

Sixty-five? That's in miles per hours, not kilometers, right? Okay, that's about as fast as we should be going on this sort of road. Then why does it feel so slow?

What if they've really fried Jim's brain? What if they've driven him some place I can't follow?

I gotta breathe. I gotta open a window. Wait, that would add drag, right? Mess up handling?

I leave my window alone.

Here we are, here we are. Through the outer gate. No, don't start driving around looking for a good spot!

I open my door and jump out. Sam screeches to a halt and now Daniel's following me. Probably a good thing - the guys at the inner gate look pretty serious.

Stay on my tail, Jackson, 'cause they'll have to shoot me to stop me.

Great, didn't shoot me. Daniel's on my heels, now he's waving a key-card and we're in.

Which way? Now I'm following Daniel through the corridors. Two lefts and a right, okay, this looks familiar.

There's Dr. Pan and some nursey-looking woman standing outside the conference room door. "Blair!" he says. "Before you go in, you should know..."

I'm a quick study, I'll learn whatever it is he wants to tell me in a second I'm sure.

The lights have been dimmed. Jim's sitting in a ball on a cot against the far wall, his knees drawn up to his chin, forearms covering his ears, hands clasped together behind his head. Jack's near him, maybe a foot or two away. Jack probably thinks he's WITH him, but I doubt it. "Anyone brief you?" he asks me.

"Some sort of brain-controlling device is stuck in his skull and he won't let anyone close enough to pull it out?"

"Pretty much sums it up," says Jack. "We gave him a tranquilizer shot. All it did was make him forget who any of us are."

"We were hoping you'd be able to get him calm so that we don't have to knock him out," says another voice. I turn; I hadn't even noticed Janet was in the room. She's leaning against a table; most of the room's furniture has been pushed up against the wall the outer door is on. "If I had a better handle on his metabolic peculiarities, I wouldn't have hesitated, but..."

"How could you let this happen?" I ask. I'd really thought she was one of the good guys.

She shakes her head. "There shouldn't be any permanent damage," she justifies. "All I need is 30 seconds and I can get the rest of the device out of him."

Okay. I can do this. I step closer and Jim remains still but for a slight shake that the low lighting kept me from noticing right off.

"He keeps talking about someone named Danny," says Jack.

"Damn."

Jack vacates his chair so that I can take his place.

"Hey, Jim," I say. "Ready to let these folks help you out?"

I reach out and put my right hand on his shoulder. In half-an-instant, he's uncoiled and gotten me pinned to the floor and I'm seeing stars. I blink, and get a glimpse of infinite agony. Then he's up and back in his ball, this time against the side of the cot with his hands crossed in front of his body.

"I can see why you moved the furniture," I say.

Jim starts to look up at this. "Blair?"

"Your favorite punching bag, buddy, in action."

He just stares.

"Jim, if you stay still for 30 seconds, Janet says she can stop the memories. Can you do that for us?"

Slowly, he nods. I sit up and scoot over to him. "Give me your hands," I say. He reaches out and I take them. "Now, Janet," I say. Like I could stop him from taking a swing at her!

Now she's beside us, brandishing tweezers. It doesn't even take 10 seconds, then she's back up and away from us. Wonder if she's been tackled by Jim too?

I squeeze Jim's hands. "Have they stopped?" I ask.

In answer, Jim collapses, rolling onto his side and pulling his legs in even tighter. Bringing in air in small gulp-sobs.

"Everyone out!" I say.

Jack heads for the door without comment; Janet says, "I'll be monitoring things from next door. Call if you need me."

Then they're gone.

I lean over Jim and embrace him. "Oh, Jim, Jim, I'm so sorry," I say. "I never thought they'd harm you."

I pull back a little, trying to get under him so that he's leaning into me. He's sort of helping, I think. His gasping continues, and his eyes are tearing now, not for the first time today I bet.

"Tell me," I say.

"Danny Choi," he says. "Again and again."

He covers his eyes with his hands.

"Has it stopped?" I ask. Please oh please...

He nods against me. "I never let myself think about Danny," he says, between gasps. "He was just a kid... "

And he's fighting now, really fighting to calm himself down, trying to take deep, slow breaths but they're breaking up on him. "I can't control ," he says, and there's fear in his voice.

"Don't try to stop it," I say.

"Don't tell me this will make me feel better," he chokes out.

I feel the fight leave him in a shuddering sob, and I shift us a little more so that now he's draped across me and facing into me and can bury his head in my armpit (poor guy - it's been a while since my last shower!) Now he's shaking and sobbing and all I can do is just hold him. Just hold him and run my hands through his hair and across his back. I won't dishonor Danny Choi's memory with meaningless platitudes, but I need Jim to know that I'm here.

After a while, the quality of his sobs changes; he's fighting them again. "Help... " he says.

I say "shhhh" and start swaying a bit, to try to give him a rhythm to hold on to. "You'll be able to stop when it's time," I tell him. "This won't last forever. But I need something from you later, okay? I need you to really tell me about Danny. 'Cause all I know is what Simon told me, the day after he died. And that's not good, man."

Jim's a little calmer now, I think, but still crying, still hiding his face, still letting me hold him.

Jim needs to know that this is okay. "In a whole lot of cultures, you know, crying is an integral part of life. You don't go to a funeral without crying your eyes out, and EVERYONE goes to funerals. You're really weird if you don't. And tears themselves have been considered holy and precious. Like, there's a tradition going back 3000 years in the Middle East of people crying into bottles during sad time, especially during funerals. In Roman times, they'd even entomb the bottles. Anyway, my point is that what you're going through is completely natural, and..."

"Shut up, Sandburg," he says, muffled a bit.

"Yeah, okay, right..." I say. And wait.

* * * Piece Seventeen: Jim * * *

I see the laser beam. I shout a warning. There's a crack - and Danny's bike goes down. I pull him to shelter. "You're okay" I tell him as I take off his helmet but I know he's not. And my hands are covered with his blood.

I see the laser beam. I shout a warning. There's a crack - and Danny's bike goes down. I pull him to shelter. "You're okay" I tell him as I take off his helmet but I know he's not. And my hands are covered with his blood.

I see the laser beam. I shout a warning. There's a crack...

There's a hand on my shoulder. They keep wanting to pull me away from Danny, but maybe this time I can save him. In an instant I've taken care of the threat to my memories.

I see the laser beam. I shout...

Is that Blair's voice? Here, not in my mind?

"Blair?" I'm losing my mind, Chief. You've got to help me.

"Your favorite punching bag, buddy, in action."

My hands are covered with Danny's blood, but I'm not crouching behind a dumpster next to a warehouse now, I'm on a tile floor somewhere. Blair's not supposed to be here.

"Jim, if you stay still for 30 seconds, Janet says she can stop the memories. Can you do that for us?" he asks.

But if I can remember it differently, Danny might make it... no, that's crazy. Crazy, crazy. Help me help me help me!

Blair asks for my hands and I comply. Dr. Frazier's here too; she comes over and I close my eyes. I see the laser beam...

Was that Sandburg I flattened a minute ago?

And then - it's over.

"Have they stopped?" Blair asks. He understands. But - I don't. Why did I have to fixate on Danny? Tough bright funny dare-devil squirt full-of-promise almost-kid-brother closest-thing-to-son-I'll-ever-have...

I feel Blair trying to get me to sit up. He's apologizing. For what? For Danny's death? No, for running out on me yesterday. Never trust never trust but he's back...

"Danny," I try to explain. "Again and again."

Saying it out loud doesn't help; I'm completely losing it. Hanging over a ledge by three fingers, now two, I'm going to fall and there's no bottom.

"Has it stopped?" Blair asks, and I nod. So why can't I breathe right?

I've covered my eyes - I'm pressing hard - but my palms are getting wet now. "He was just a kid..." I try to explain, but that's as much voice as I seem to have.

This is ridiculous, Captain Ellison. You've faced tougher opponents than this. Calm yourself, breathe in and hold and breathe out, breathe in and hold and breathe out...

If I let go of the ledge I'm gone... Blair, I'm getting really scared here! I try to tell him I've lost control of everything, that I'm completely losing it, but again all I can get out is a few syllables.

"Don't try to stop it," he says.

I'm not in the mood for new-age let-it-all-out shit. I know where this is heading. I'm going to go where I can't get back from. And as much as life has sucked recently, I don't want to do that.

"Don't tell me this will make me feel better," I tell him. Well, tell his shirt. He's holding me tightly; he knows I'm afraid of falling, of swirling into darkness. Of having things I don't want to face come at me. Things worse than Danny?

Yeah, there're there, dancing at the edge of my subconscious. You've lived, you've thrived, Sentinel. Blessed Protector, but not of us, eh? Archie Sarris is looking at me from a face burned, melted, but alive. He died with a voiceless scream, but now he's laughing. "Come on, tough guy! Who are you fooling!"

Lila takes his arm. "Jimmy! You didn't tell me about Archie! But we're here, in your brain, waiting for you. Come and visit. Janet Myers is here too. You know, she was fond of Blair, but you'll do."

"Hey, wait, dude!" says Blair, but not the Blair I'm clinging to. This Blair's skin is alabaster, his disheveled hair dripping and smelling of chlorine. "Jan, you don't want him. Let's go take a drive down the coast, let Molly have him."

Molly is someone I can deal with. "I helped you, didn't I?" I plead. Didn't I?

"Yes, Jimmy, you were very sweet," she says, laughing, and my heart's racing; of all the odd shit I've run into, nothing has chilled my blood like encountering her a few months ago.

Damn it, Blair, you've got to help me here! Don't shhh me! I've got to stop this now. You've said it yourself, there's a reason we repress things.

"You'll be able to stop when it's time," alive-Blair says. "This won't last forever. But I need something from you later, okay? I need you to really tell me about Danny. 'Cause all I know is what Simon told me, the day after he died. And that's not good, man."

"Yeah," says Danny. "What were you thinking? Your little heart-to-heart with Beverly Sanchez was touching, but admit it, you were THIS CLOSE to banging her. I felt so VIOLATED."

"That's not how it was!" I protest. "I didn't know what else to do! What do you want from me?"

I don't hear his answer, though, because alive-Blair's talking. About - what? Anthropology? Yeah, I get your point, proof by exhaustion that big boys cry. News flash there. Just shut up, I'm not afraid of tears, buddy, you are. I'm afraid of what's inside of me. Of being trapped with my dead. Of crying forever.

My grip finally slips, and I'm falling.

Is there shame in clinging to a friend and weeping without purpose? If there's any comfort to be had, is there shame in taking it?

From afar, I hear Danny laughing in derision, but if I concentrate on Blair's hand in my hair then it doesn't seem as horrible. I hear Janet Myers screaming in terror, but Blair's hand on my back is keeping her agony from overwhelming me. Why is this working?

I think I'll experiment a little. I let myself sink into Blair's embrace. Watch my back for a while, Chief. I'll pay you back some day, if I survive this sane.

For a long time, I simply let things be. I stop hearing the voices. I feel the impact of my breakdown on my body - stuffed nose, sore throat, stinging eyes, cramped stomach muscles - but they are pains I can bear, that I'd suffer for a million years if they meant I could feel as cherished as I do right now.

I pull back so I can see Blair's face. "You came back," I say.

Blair nods. "I thought they'd stop working you over if I wasn't around," he says.

"Coulda left a note," I tell him.

"Couldn't find a pen," he says, and I can't tell whether or not he's joking.

I close my eyes and sink back against him. I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I have no pride left. All I want is the simplest comfort. I know this is wrong, but I can't remember why.

* * * Piece Eighteen: Daniel * * *

We've lost them. As soon as they get themselves cleaned up, they're out of here.

I don't really think the secret to getting Sha're back and free is buried in Ellison's mind, but it makes me really angry that there's this KNOWLEDGE locked inside the skull of a basically compliant man in the room next door and we can't get at it.

The audio picks up them speaking in seemingly normal tones. Sam lets out a huge sigh and wipes at her eyes. Jack's been looking pretty shaky too, and Janet just looks glum. Of the five of us who have been monitoring Ellison and Sandburg, only Teal'c looks completely impassive. But that's Teal'c.

Hammond comes in, which surprises me a little. We usually come to him. "How are our guests doing?" he asks.

"We should let Ellison know what the goa'uld really are," says Jack, surprising me.

"I don't think..." I begin.

"Neither do I," says Jack, cutting me off. "But Jim's a bright guy. A detective, for crying out loud. He's going to be putting things together, asking questions. And I don't put anything past Sandburg, not where Ellison's concerned, as pissed as he probably is at us. If they know the truth, they can be convinced of the need for secrecy. And I also don't want to downplay the strengths that someone like Ellison could bring to the SGC."

The general nods. "Don't try to recruit him, Colonel. He's obviously got some baggage, and might have trouble getting through psych. But don't discourage him if he brings it up, either. And make sure he knows to come to us with any relevant information if more of the goa'uld's memories come to him naturally."

"What about Sandburg?" I ask.

"Brief him too, of course," says Hammond.

"And if he wants to enlist? Or team up with his mother and go goa'uld-hunting?" ask Jack.

Hammond sighs. "Naomi Sandburg and Margaret Mary McDonald are an ongoing project," he says.

How's that for a non-answer?

When you're a general, you can do that; he leaves.

Jack nods at the four of us. "Okay, let's do this as a team; it's about time Jim met Teal'c. Doctor, you should probably come too."

And so we go pay our regards.

Jim and Blair are sitting on the cot when we all stream in. Jim looks a mess, and Blair isn't doing much better. "We're leaving now," Blair says. Jim doesn't contradict him.

Jack nods. "We figured as much. But first, we thought we owed it to you both to be a little bit more forthcoming... Ah, I see you've noticed my buddy Teal'c's not your standard-issue guy here."

Oh, yeah, I'm so used to Teal'c I don't think anything of him, but of course he's been keeping away from Ellison for a reason. Jim's staring at him, obviously listening.

"You're carrying a goa'uld!" he says, rising. Not to attack, but not to be caught at a disadvantage either.

Teal'c inclines his head. "I carry a juvenile goa'uld. It is the way of my people. It has no control over me."

"And you trust him?" Jim asks Jack.

"With my life, many times over," says Jack. "See, Teal'c's not from here. He's not even from France. He's from a planet about, oh, a thousand light-years away, right Sam?"

"Close enough," she says.

"See, most of the goa'uld we pursue, well, they're not on Earth."

Jack pauses dramatically. This is usually where people scoff. Jim and Blair seem beyond scoffing just now.

"We have, in our possession, a device which lets us travel vast distances and take the fight to the goa'uld."

Again, our guests fail to comment.

"'SGC' doesn't stand for 'Search for Goa'uld Committee,' it stands for Stargate Command. The stargate is what we use to travel through space."

"Fine," says Blair. "Can we go now?"

"We've saved the planet a bunch of times," says Jack, getting desperate.

"Great," says Blair. "Thanks. That explains the high tech stuff. Alien technology you really don't understand but feel like you have to use anyway. Standard fodder for Anthro 202 midterms. Can we go now?"

"Yeah, a lot makes sense now," says Jim. "Getting this all funded must be a bitch."

"Like you wouldn't believe," says Jack.

"Any questions?" asks Sam, deciding to rescue Jack.

"Can we get a commercial flight back to where we left Jim's truck, or do we have to take a bus? Or would it be easier to fly back home and get a friend to give us a lift to Montana..."

"Idaho," murmurs Jim.

"Wherever," says Blair.

"We can arrange..." starts Jack.

"No way in hell," says Blair.

There's silence for a moment, then Jim says, "I'm assuming we can speak to no-one about any of this."

"Got it in one," says Jack. "That's pretty much why we're telling you this much. Don't want you asking questions, stumbling upon half-truths and maybe getting us attention we don't need."

Jim nods and nudges Blair. "Do we promise to be good?"

Blair says, "What happens if I say 'no'?"

"Chief... "

"Yes," says Blair, sounding sincere, or is that contrite?

I can't take this anymore. "Jim, Blair, this isn't just for nothing!" I say.

"Yes, Jack told us, you're in the business of saving the Earth," says Jim.

"You don't get it!" I say. "What you know - it could help me save my wife!"

That's got their attention. "Explain," says Jim.

Without daring to look at Jack, I say, "A couple of years ago, I spent a year on another planet. It was the happiest year of my life. Then some goa'uld system lord attacked and took my wife to be a host. For two years, she's had that THING inside her, controlling her. She was free for a few months while she was pregnant, but we didn't KNOW she was pregnant until it was too late to take advantage of the situation... I only had a few hours with her... " and I can't say anything more. I cross my arms and concentrate on controlling myself. But they had to be told.

There's an arm around my shoulder. Blair. "I'm sorry, buddy," he says. "What's your wife's name?"

"Sha're."

"Does Jim hold the key to getting to Sha're?"

"I don't know."

"We promise - PROMISE - to let you know if Jim recalls anything about Ular's interactions with other goa'uld. What other sorts of information would be useful?"

"Anything about how to get a goa'uld to leave a host. Anything about means of communication between goa'uld. Just - anything."

"Okay," says Blair. "We'll let you know anything that Jim remembers. Right, Jim?"

"Anything that might be a help," says Jim. "I'm sorry - I didn't realize that this was personal for you."

He's looking a bit better - more, I don't know, focused. Actually, better than he has since they arrived last week. Maybe it's because he's got a definite perceived threat in Teal'c? Or just because he's relieved to have decided to leave?

I nod to acknowledge Jim's apology. I still wish they'd give it another go. But that's not going to happen, not right now at least.

After they leave, Jack says, "Jim did his best, Daniel."

He's right, maybe. But if humans on Earth - strong people of good will - don't do everything they can to fight the goa'uld, how will we ever defeat them?

* * * Piece Nineteen: Blair * * *

The rental car agent is looking at us like we're crazy. What's so incomprehensible about wanting to rent a car to drive one-way to Buffalo Jaw, Idaho? Ah, she thinks Idaho's another country. Jim's being the definition of patient and reasonable as he shows her where we're going on the map of the western U.S. hanging behind her. She apologizes, explains she's from Boston.

A minute later, we're on the road. We chose this car off the lot ourselves; there's no way anyone could have gotten out in front of us and bugged every vehicle. We can finally talk.

"You okay?" I ask.

"I'm fine," says Jim.

That doesn't make me happy. "By some definition," I say.

"Really, I'm doing okay," he says. "It's weird, but knowing that there's a reason for them being so interested in Ular's memories makes it all a lot easier to take."

Okay, I can buy that maybe.

"And, I've been thinking, Chief - when Jack came by a few months ago to talk with us in Cascade, remember that job he was offering me? I bet it was to do more than trying to find goa'uld in America. It might have been to do some of that non-Earth work."

"You really believe them?"

"They weren't lying."

"I believe them, too," I say. "I was hoping you'd convince me otherwise."

"And I was wondering whether the job offer was still open," Jim continues. Then, quickly, "Of course, they may think I'm a total head case now."

"Incacha said you were the Sentinel of the Great City, not Sentinel of the Planet," I point out.

"Incacha really didn't get around much," says Jim. He sighs. "It just might be hard to get back to normal life, knowing that there's something really big happening that I'm not a part of."

I can see that, I guess, though I personally think that my life here on Earth offers enough challenges. Like, trying to find out if I still have a job at 'Wild America.'

"Are WE still good?" I have to ask Jim.

I take my eyes off the road for a second so that I can see his face. Jim's face never lies. He's looking like he might be about to cry or something, so I quickly look ahead again.

"Chief, I... I don't even have the words, okay buddy?" he says.

Okay, I can live with that.

*** The End ***

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, if a hug would only solve everything IRL...


End file.
